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THE 



SONGS OF OUR LAND, 



OTHER POEMS. 



BY MARY E. HEWITT. 



---££5p^ 



BOSTON: 

WILLIAM D. TICKNOR & COMPANY 



MDCCCXLVI 



.HS-S* 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1845, by 

MARY E. HEWITT, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



DUTTON AND WENTWORTII, PRINTERS, 

No. 37, Congress Street, Boston. 



TO 



THE PLAYMATE OF MY CHIIiDHOOD, 



AND THE FRIEND OF MY LATER YEARS, 



JOSIAH MOORE, ESQ, 



OF MANILLA, PHILIPPINE ISLANDS 



THIS VOLUME IS FONDLY AND FAITHFULLY 



INSCRIBED, 



BY HIS AFFECTIONATE SISTEl 



THE AUTHOR. 



CONTENTS 



The Songs of our Land, 9 

Love's Limning, 16 

Forgotten Heroes, 18 

The Wife's Prayer, 22 

Lines written in the Notch of the White Mountains, 24 

The Two Voices, 29 

God bless the Mariner, 32 

Cameo I— A Centaur and Bride of the Lapithae, 35 

Cameo II — Hercules and Omphale, 36 

Cameo III — Tityos chained in Tartarus, 37 

Alone, 38 

The Axe of the Settler, 40 

Imitation of Sappho, 43 



b CONTENTS. 

To the River Saco, 45 

The City by the Sea, 48 

A Yarn, 51 

Parting Words, 57 

Tell me all, 59 

The Launch, 62 

The Hearth of Home, 65 

To Mary of Kentucky, 68 

To a Pair of old Ear-rings, 70 

Ten years ago, 74 

A Bivouac in the Desert, 76 

The Poor, God help them, 80 

The Spirit-Bond, 83 

The Green Mountains of Vermont, 85 

A Romance, 88 

The Wreck, 91 

A Thought of the Pilgrims, 95 

Song of the Owl, 100 

ToMrs. H. P. S., 102 

Green Places in the City, 105 

A Lament for the Old Year, 107 



CONTENTS. 7 

Bless Thee, 109 

A Tale of Luzon, HO 

Lay, 114 

To Mary, 117 

The Fountain of Youth, 119 

The Ocean-Tide to the Rivulet,^ 120 

Osceola signing the Treaty, 122 

Per sever an do, 125 

To a Musician, 127 

The Highlander's Wager, 130 

The Indian Wife, 136 

Parting from a Household, 139 

The Rose and the Tomb, 141 

The Bird of Paradise, 143 

Lament of Josephine, . 145 

A Scena, 147 



THE SONGS OF OUR LAND. 



" Their voice shall he heard in other ages, 
"When the kings of Temorahave failed."— Ossian , 



Ye say we sing no household songs, 

To children round our hearths at play; 
No minstrelsy to us belongs. 

No legend of a bygone day — 
No old tradition of the hills — 
Our giant land no memory fills — 

We have no proud heroic lay. 
Ye ask the time-worn storied page — 
Ye ask the lore of other age, 

From us, a race of yesterday ! 



10 



Of yore, in Britain's feudal halls, 

Where many a storied trophy hung 
With shield and banner on the walls ; 

The Bard's high harp was sternly strung 
In praise of war — its fierce delights — 
To " heroes of an hundred fights." 

The lofty sounding shell outrung. 
Gone is the ancient Bardic race — 
Their song hath found perpetual place 

Their country's proud archives among. 

The stirring Scottish border tale 

Pealed from the chords in chieftain's hall. 
The wild traditions of the Gael, 

The wandering harper's lays recall. 
Bold themes, Germania, fire thy strings — 
And when the Marseillaise outrings. 

With patriot ardor thrills the Gaul. 
All have their legend and their song. 
Records of glory, feud, and wrong : 

Of conquest wrought, and foeman's fall. 



11 



Fond thought the Switzer's bosom fills 

When sounds the "Rans des Vaches" on high- 
A race as ancient as their hills, 

Still echoes that wild mountain cry. 
He springs along the rocky height, 
He marks the lammergeyer's flight. 

The startled chamois bounding by — 
He snuffs the mountain breeze of morn, 
He winds again the mountain horn — 

And loud the wakened Alps reply ! 

Our fathers bore from Albion's isle 

No stories of her sounding lyres — 
They left the old baronial pile. 

They left the harp of ringing wires. 
Ours are the legends still rehearsed, 
Ours are the songs that gladsome burst 

By all your cot and palace fires : — 
Each tree that in your soft wind stirs, 
Waves o'er our ancient sepulchres, 

The sleeping ashes of our sires ! 



12 



They left the gladsome Christmas chime, 

The yule fire, and the misletoe — 
They left the vain, mi godly rhyme, 

For hymns the solemn paced and slow — 
They left the mass, the stoled priest, 
The scarlet woman and the beast. 

For worship rude and altars low — 
Their land, with its dear memories fraught. 
They left for liberty of thought — 

For stranger clime and savage foe. 

And forth they went — nerved to forsake 

Home, and the chain they might not wear; 
And woman's heart was strong, to break 

The links of love that bound her there ; — 
Here, free to worship and believe, 
From many a log -built hut at eve 

Went up the suppliant voice of prayer. 
Is it not writ on history's page. 
That the strong hand grasped our heritage? 

Of the lion claimed his forest lair ! 



13 



Our people raised no loud war songs, 

They shouted no fierce battle cry ; 
A burnmg memory of their wrongs 

Lit up their path to victory. 
With prayer to God to aid the right, 
The yeoman girded him for fight, 

To free the land he tilled, or die. 
They bore no pro ad escutcheoned shield, 
No blazoned banners to the field — 

Naught but their watchword " Liberty !" 

Their sons — when after-years shall fling 

O'er these, romance — when time hath cast 
The mighty shadow of his wing 

Between them, and the storied past — 
Will tell of foul oppression's heel. 
Of hands that bore the avenging steel, 

And battled sternly to the last — 
By their hearth-fires—on the free hill-side — 
So shall our songs o'er every tide, 

Swell forth triumphant on the blast ! 



14 



E'en now the word that roused onr land 

Is caUing o'er the wave "Awake !" 
And peaUng on from strand to strand, 

Wherever ocean's surges break. 
Up to the quickened ear of toil, 
It rises from the teeming soil, 

And bids the slave his bonds forsake — 
Hark ! from the mountains to the sea, 
The old world echoes " Liberty !" 

Till thrones to their foundations shake. 

And ye who idly set at naught 

Tlie sacred boon in suffering won, 
Read o'er our page with glory fraught. 

Nor scoff that we no more have done. 
Read how the nation of the free 
Hath carved her deeds in history. 

Nor count them bootless every one. 
Deeds of our mighty men of old, 
Whose names stand evermore enrolled 

Beneath the name of Washington. 



15 



Oh, mine own fair and glorious land ! 

Did I not hold such faith in thee, 
As did the honored patriot band 

That bled to make thee great and free — 
Did I not look to hear thee sung, 
To hear thy lyre yet proudly strung, 

Thou ne'er hadst waked my minstrelsy. 
And I shall hear thy song resound. 
Till from his shackles man shall bound, 

And shout, exultant, "Liberty!" 



LOVE'S LIMNING. 

IMITATION OF SAPPHO. 

Shall I portray thee in thy glorious seeming, 
Thou that the Pharos of my darkness art — 

The star above Ufe's waters ever beaming 
To guide the lonely voyager, my heart. 

Vain were my art thy semblance all transcendent, 
On other tablet than my heart to trace — 

As well the flower might paint the orb resplendent 
That warms its beauty into life and grace. 

Like the blue lotos on its own clear river, 
Lie thy soft eyes, beloved ! upon my soul ; 

And in its depths thou mirrored art forever, 
How dark soe'er the clouds above may roll. 



17 



Shine on me ever, thou that brightly beaming, 
The radiant Pharos of my darkness art — 

The one true star above hfe's waters gleaming 
To guide the lonely voyager, my heart. 



FORGOTTEN HEROES 



Vixere fortes ante Agamemnona 
Multi : sed omnes illachrymabiles 
TJrgentur, ignotique longa 
Nocte, carent quia vate bb^cto.— Horace. 



Morn lay on crowned Olympus' steep, 

And bright Peneus' tide ; 
And the giant mists wound slowly up, 

O'er towering Ossa's side. 

And fair as in the elder time, 
Beneath spread Tempe's vale: 

And afar flashed (Eta's fabled height. 
And Malia's distant sail. 



19 



Morning in storied Greece ! and song, 
Like a startling trumpet's clang, 

From the olive gatherers on the heights, 
Through the wavy branches rang. 

And the peasant mother at her door. 
To the babe that climbed her knee, 

Sang aloud the land's heroic songs — 
Sang of Thermopylae. 

Sang of Mycale, of Marathon, 

Of proud Platsea's day. 
Till the wakened hills from peak to peak 

Echoed the glorious lay ! 

O godlike name ! O godlike deed ! 

Song-borne afar on every breeze — 
Ye are sounds to thrill like a battle shout, 

LeONIDAS ! MiLTIADES ! 



20 



But they who lived ere o'er the land 
Rome's conquering cohorts poured — 

Ere the free earth echoed the charger tramp 
Of the hostile Asian horde — 

Or ere o'er fallen Illium's domes 
High blazed her funeral pyre — 

Ages ere Chios' wondrous bard 
To heroes strung the lyre — 

Dwelt they where proud Eurotas' flood. 

The kingly river, swept ; 
Or where bright along the laurel groves 

His course Ilissus kept 7 

Where closed the fight at eve ? what grove 

With songs triumphal rang, 
While high on the leafy boughs their shields 

To the cooling breezes swang. 



21 



Who were the mighty !— Say !— No voice 
Breaks from their hidden urns — 

From the dim funereal cypress groves 
No answering sound returns ! 

Forgotten all ! for them no bard 

The heroic lay might swell — 
There were none to raise the song for them, 

Or to strike the sounding shell. 

And the land hath now no memory 

Of their old battle day— 
With the fiery breath of their charging steeds, 

They have passed from earth away. 



THE WIFE^S PRAYER. 

Hear me ! — Oh, hear me now ! 
By the red flush upon thy wasted cheek — 
By the deep tracery o'er thy noble brow, 
Hear me ! bear with me, husband ! while I speak ! 

I've marked thee day by day — 
Thy hours are all of anxious, vague unrest — 

Thine eye hath caught a stern, unwonted ray — 
Thy lip hath lost all memory of its jest. 

Thy wife sits pale beside — 
Thy child shrinks back appalled from thine embrace — 

Thy menials quail before thy mien of pride — 
Thy very dog avoids thine altered face I 



23 



O ! for poor Glory's wreath, 
Casting from thee all tenderness and gladness ; 

Thou track' st a phantom on, whose fiery breath 
Drieth the way founts till thou thirst to madness ! 

My prayer is all for thee — 
My life in thine ! by our remembered bliss — 

By all thine hours of watchful misery — 
What meed hath fame to render thee for this ! 

If thou yet lov'st me, hear I 
Now, while thy feet press onward to the goal. 

Turn thee ! oh ! turn thee in thy stern career. 
And thrust this mad Ambition from thy soul ! 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE NOTCH OF THE 
WHITE MOUNTAINS. 



" Glorious, because a shadow of thy might— 

A type, or link for intercourse with thee."— Wordsworth. 



Dread mountain gorge ! that hast thy way, 

In gloom, the sterile hills among ; 
Where coldly falls the cheering ray, 

To light thy path with rocks o'erhung — 
Here, 'mid your wild and dark defile, 

O'erawed, and wonder- whelmed I stand ; 
And ask, is this the fearful vale 

That opens on the shadowy land 7 



25 



Gone from your path the antler' d herd, 

Nor moose, nor cariboo* intrude ; 
Nor hum of bee, nor song of bird. 

Awake the voiceless solitude. 
No sound comes o'er my listenhig ear, 

To break the solemn, calm profound ; 
But through the hush methinks I hear 

The very stillness breathe around. 

Art thou of earthquake old the track 7 

Or were these towering ramparts piled 
When first He bade the wave roll back. 

And young creation's morning smiled ? 
Or 'mong your caves primeval pent, 

Burst here the red volcano's wrath ? 
Dark glen ! what power resistless rent 

Through these eternal rocks a path 1 



*A species of lar^e elk, that has made its appearance among the White Mountains, la 
there known by the name of the cariboo. 



C* 



26 



Thou stream— thus winding silently, 

From forth the narrow valley sped; 
When, through all time's immensity. 

Was fashioned here thy darksome bed 7 
When from the erst submerged earth, 

The flood flowed back from hill and plain. 
Rolled here the wave, subsiding, forth, 

To join the far receding main 7 

Bright waterfall ! that from o'erhead, 

Adown the rocky steep dost glide ; 
Thus binding like a silver thread. 

The arid mountain's jaggy side — 
While vines and motley mosses cling 

To cHfi"s that part to give thee way; 
As they^ to grace so fair a thing, 

Had decked them forth for holiday — 



27 



Thou, gleaming through the valley's shade, 

Like hope 'mid desolation sprung, 
To cheer the wanderer through the glade — 

Give to your flow exhaustless tongue ! 
Sing, as from crag to crag you leap — 

Unto the listening valley tell, 
Who called you from your crystal sleep. 

And bade you from the mountain well ! 

And you, ye hoar triumvirate,* 

Your shaggy brows with clouds o'erhung 
Your towering heads at morning's gate, 

Your feet the distant vales among — 
Your sleeping avalanches wake ! 

Speak forth in thunder from your height- 
Shout, till the firm set mountains quake, 

And say who piled ye in your might ! 

* Mounts Washington, Adams and Jefferson. 



28 



What all pervading presence near, 

Swells through the valley like a flood ? 
My awe-struck soul, and filled with fear, 

Me through the silence whispers, '' God ! " 
''A God !— A God ! "—the hills awake— 

From rock, and stream, and springing sod, 
A thousand echoing voices hreak 

Exultant forth, ''A God !— A God ! " 



THE TWO VOICES 



" How many ages hence, 
Shall this our lofty scene be acted over, 
In states unborn, and accents yet unknown ?" 

" So oft as that shall be, 
So often shall the knot of us be call'd 
The men that gave our country liberty 1 "—Jttlim Caesar. 



A VOICE went forth throughout the land, 
And an answering voice replied 

From the rock-piled mountain fastnesses 
To the surging ocean tide. 

And far the blazing headlands gleam' d 
With their land-awakening fires ; 

And the hill-tops kindled, peak and height, 
With a hundred answering pyres. 



30 



The quick youth snatch'd his father's sword, 

And the yeoman rose in might ; 
And the aged grandsire nerved him there, 

For the stormy field of fight ; 

And the hillmen left their grass-grown steeps, 
And their flocks and herds unkept ; 

And the ploughshare of the husbandman 
In the half-turn'd furrow slept. 

They wore no steel-wrought panoply. 

Nor shield nor morion gleam' d ; 
Nor the flaunt of banner' d blazonry 

In the morning sunlight stream'd. 

They bore no mar shall' d, firm array — 

Like a torrent on they pour'd, 
With the firelock, and the mower's scythe, 

And the old forefathers' sword. 



31 



And again a voice went sounding on, 
And the bonfires stream' d on high ; 

And the hili-tops rang to the headlands back, 
With the shout of victory ! 

So the land redeem'd her heritage, 
By the free hand mail'd in right, 

From the war-shod, hireling foeman's tread, 
And the ruthless grasp of might. 



GOD BLESS THE MARINER. 

God's blessing on the Mariner ! 

A venturous life leads he — 
What reck the landsmen of their toil, 

Who dwell upon the sea 7 

The landsman sits within his home, 
His fireside bright and warm ; 

Nor asks how fares the mariner 
All night amid the storm. 

God bless the hardy Mariner ! 

A homely garb wears he, 
And he goeth with a rolling gait. 

Like a ship upon the sea. 



33 



He hath piped the loud " ay ! ay sir ! " 
O'er the voices of the main. 

Till his deep tones have the hoarseness 
Of the rising hurricane. 

His seamed and honest visage 
The sun and wind have tanned, 

And hard as iron gauntlet 

Is his broad and sinewy hand. 

But oh ! a spirit looketh 

From out his clear, blue eye, 

With a truthful, childlike earnestness, 
Like an angel from the sky. 

A venturous life the sailor leads 

Between the sky and sea — 
But when the hour of dread is past, 

A merrier who, than he 7 



34 



He knows that by the rudder bands 
Stands one well skilled to save ; 

For a strong hand is the Steersman's 
That directs him o'er the wave. 



CAMEO I. 

A CENTAUK AND BBIDE OF THE L A P I T H JE . 

With springing hoof that would the earth disdain, 
Broad, swelling chest, and limb with motion rife, 
Prom Lapitheean banquet and the strife, 

Fleetly he bounds along Thessalia's plain. 

And on his back, in rude embrace entwined, 
A captive bride he bears. Her trait' rous veil 
Reveals her brow, as Juno's roses pale, 

And floats like scarf of Iris on the wind. 

All vainly struggling 'gainst that bold caress, 
Her outstretched arms essay the air to grasp ; 
But firm the captor holds his iron clasp, 

And strives, with ruthless lip, her lip to press. 

Thus vice hath power to sway the feeble soul, 

And bear it on in measureless control. 



36 



CAMEO II 



UEECULES AND OMPHALE 



Reclined enervate on the couch of ease, 

No more he pants for deeds of high emprise ; 
For pleasure holds in soft, voluptuous ties 

Enthrall' d, great Jove-descended Hercules. 

The hand that bound the Erymanthian boar, 
Hesperia's dragon slew, with bold intent — 
That from his quivering side in triumph rent 

The skin the Cleonsean lion wore, 

Holds forth the goblet — while the Lydian queen 
Robed like a nymph, her brow enwreathed with vine- 
Lifts high the amphora, brimmed with rosy wine, 

And pours the draught the crowned cup within. 

And thus the soul, abased to sensual sway, 

Its worth forsakes — its might foregoes for aye. 



37 



CAMEO III. 



TITYOS CHAINED IN TARTARUS. 



Oh ! wondrous marvel of the sculptor's art ! 

What cunning hand hath culled thee from the mine, 
And carved thee into life, with skill divine ! 
How claims in thee humanity a part — 
Seems from the gem the form enchained, to start, 
While thus with fiery eye, and outspread wings, 
The ruthless vulture to his victim clings. 
With whetted beak deep in the quivering heart. 
Oh ! thou embodied meaning, master wrought ! 
Thus taught the sage, how, sunk in crime and sin, 
The soul a prey to conscience, writhes within 
Its fleshly bonds enslaved : — thus ever. Thought, 
The breast's keen torturer, remorseful tears 
At life, the hell whose chain the soul in anguish wears. 



ALONE 



" Seul, cherchant dans I'espace un point qui me reponde.' 



There lies a deep and sealed welt 
Within yon leafy forest hid ; 

Whose pent and lonely waters swell, 
Its confines chill and drear amid. 

It hears the birds on every spray 

Trill forth melodious notes of love- 
It feels the warm sun's seldom ray 
Glance on the stone its wave above- 



39 



And quick the gladdened waters rush 
Tumultuous upward to the brink ; 

A seal is on their joyous gush, 

And back, repressed, they coldly shrink. 

Thus in their caverned space, apart, 

Closed from the eye of day, they dwell- 
So, prisoned deep within my heart. 
The tides of quick affection swell. 

Each kindly glance — each kindly tone, 
To joy its swift pulsations sway ; 

But none may lift the veiling stone. 
And give the franchised current way. 

Smite THOU the rock, whose eye alone. 
The hidden spring within may see ; 

And bid the flood, resistless one ! 
Flow forth, rejoicing, unto thee. 



THE AXE OF THE SETTLER 

Thou conqueror of the wilderness, 

With keen and bloodless edge — 
Hail ! to the sturdy artisan 

Who welded thee, bold wedge ! 
Though the warrior deem thee weapon 

Fashioned only for the slave, 
Yet the settler knows thee mightier 

Than the tried Damascus glaive. 

While desolation marketh 

The course of foeman's brand, 

Thy strong blow scatters plenty. 
And gladness through the land. 



41 



Thou opest the soil to culture, 
To the sunlight and the dew ; 

And the village spire thou plantest 
Where of old the forest grew. 

When the broad sea rolled between them 

And their own far native land ; 
Thou wert the faithful ally 

Of the hardy pilgrim band. 
They bore no warlike eagles, 

No banners swept the sky ; 
Nor the clarion, like a tempest. 

Swelled its fearful notes on high. 

But the ringing wild reechoed 

Thy bold, resistless stroke, 
Where, like incense, on the morning 

Went up the cabin smoke. 



42 



The tall oaks bowed before thee, 
Like reeds before the blast ; 

And the earth put forth in gladness, 
Where the axe in triumph passed. 

Then hail ! thou noble conqueror ! 

That when tyranny oppress' d, 
Hewed for our fathers from the wild 

A land wherein to rest. 
Hail, to the power that giveth 

The bounty of the soil, 
And freedom, and an honored name, 

To the hardy sons of toil. 



IMITATION OF SAPPHO. 

If to repeat thy name when none may hear me, 
To find thy thought with all my thoughts inwove ; 

To languish where thou 'rt not — to sigh when near thee- 
Oh ! if this be to love thee, I do love ! 

If when thou utterest low words of greeting, 
To feel through every vein the torrent pour ; 

Then back again the hot tide swift retreating, 
Leave me all powerless, silent as before — 

If to list breathless to thine accents falling. 

Almost to pain, upon my eager ear ; 
And fondly when alone to be recalling 

The words that I would die again to hear — 



44 



If 'neath thy glance my heart all strength forsaking, 
Pant in my breast as pants the frighted dove ; 

If to think on thee ever, sleeping — waking — 
Oh ! if this be to love thee, I do love ! 



TO THE RIVER SACO. 

WRITTEN AT THE FALLS. 

Thou, mountain-born ! that gushing from the height, 
Widening and deepening in thine onward flow ; 

Here hurlest thy waters headlong in thy might, 
Down dashing 'mong the jagged rocks below, 
As leaps the maddened war horse on the foe — 

And rushing ever onward to the sea, 

Strong as thou wert a thousand years ago, 

'Neath the same stars that first companioned thee ; 

Exhaustless through all time — type of eternity ! 

Still in all time hath earth with change been rife. 
Since on thy wave primeval morning lay — 

Whole hecatombs have bled amid the strife. 
Empires have risen, flourished, passed away. 
And new-born states sprung full-armed into day — 



46 



Centuries that saw thy tireless waters roll, 

Adown thy vigorous tide have swept for aye ; 
But thou still urgest onward to the goal, 
As He who being gave, had filled thee with a soul. 

Where now the tinkling herd-bell smites the air, 
High o'er thy murmurs rang the war-whoop dire ; 

When, the red Indian's hunting grounds to share 
The pale-face came — and rose the chiefs in ire : 
They struggled long and perished, son and sire. 

Where late the crouching panther made his lair. 
Gleams in the sunlight many a village spire. 

The settler's axe hath laid the forest bare. 

The Indian's council fire is quenched forever there. 

But thou remain' St — thou, and yon throned hills 
And crowned with morning, ere yet night opaque 

Lifts her dun mantle from the swelling rills. 
Here roamed of old the gaunt wolf through the brake, 
And on his prey leapt forth the glittering snake. 



47 



Erewhiles the deer to thy cool wave below, 

At hot noon panting hied, his thirst to slake ; 
Unmindful all where swift above thy flow, 
The deadly shaft well aimed, sped from the hunter's bow. 

The traveller tracks thee from thy mountain source, 
Winding thy way with many a deep indent ; 

Now, rushing on resistless in thy course — 
And in thy flow of strength and beauty blent, 
Sees the bold hand of the Omnipotent : — 

Here pausing, where in thine infinity 
Thou pour' St forever forth thy flood unspent, 

He cries, " Change ne'er may turn or fetter thee, 

Till yonder skies wax dim and there be no more sea ! " 



THE CITY BY THE SEA. 

Crowned with the hoar of centuries, 

There, by the eternal sea, 
High on her misty cape she sits, 

Like an eagle ! fearless — free ! 

And thus in olden time she sat, 

On that morn of long ago ; 
'Mid the roar of Freedom's armament, 

And the war-bolts of her foe. 

Old Time hath reared her pillar'd walls, 

Her domes and turrets high : 
With her hundred tall and tapering spires, 

All flashing to the sky. 



49 



Shall I not sing of thee, beloved 1 

My beautiful ! my pride ! 
Thou that towerest in thy queenly grace, 

By the tributary tide. 

There, swan-like crestest thou the waves 
That enamored; round thee swell — 

Fairer than Aphrodite, couched 
On her foam-wreathed ocean shell ! 

Oh ! ever, 'mid this restless hum 

Resounding from the street, 
Of the thronging, hurrying multitude, 

And the tread of stranger feet — 

My heart turns back to thee — mine own ! 

My beautiful ! my pride ! 
With thought of thy free ocean wind, 

And the clasping, fond old tide — 

E* 



50 



With all thy kindred household smokes, 

Upwreathing far away ; 
And the merry bells that pealed as now 

On my grandsire's wedding day — 

To those green graves and truthful hearts, 

O, city by the sea ! 
My heritage, and priceless dower, 

My beautiful ! in thee. 



A YARN. 

" 'Tis Saturday night, and our watch below, — 

What heed we, boys, how the breezes blow, 

While our cans are brimmed with the sparkling flow ! 

Come Jack — uncoil, as we pass the grog, 

And spin us a yarn from memory's log." 

Jack's brawny chest like the broad sea heaved, 
While his loving lip to the beaker cleaved ; 
And he drew his tarred and well-saved sleeve 
Across his mouth, as he drained the can, 
And thus to his listening mates began : — 

" When I sailed a boy, in the schooner Mike, 
No bigger, I trow, than a marlinspike — 
But I've told ye the tale ere now, belike ? " 



52 



" Go on ! " each voice reechoed, 

And the tar thrice hemmed, and thus he said : — 

" A staunch built craft as the waves e'er bore ! — 
We had loosed our sails for home once more, 
Freighted full deep from Labrador, 
When a cloud one night rose on our lee. 
That the heart of the stoutest quailed to see. 

And voices wild with the winds were blent, 
As our bark her prow to the waters bent ; 
And the seamen muttered their discontent — 
Muttered and nodded ominously. 
But the mate, right carelessly whistled he. 

' Our bark may never outride the gale — 

'Tis a pitiless night ! the pattering hail 

Hath coated each spar as 'twere in mail ; 

And our sails are riven before the breeze. 

While our cordage and shrouds into icicles freeze ! 



53 



Thus spake the skipper beside the mast, 
While the arrowy sleet fell thick and fast ; 
And our bark drove onward before the blast 
That goaded the waves, till the angry main 
Rose up and strove with the hurricane. 

Up spake the mate, and his tone was gay — 
' Shall we, at this hour, to fear give way 1 
We must labor, in sooth, as well as pray ! 
Out, shipmates, and grapple home yonder sail, 
That flutters in ribbands before the gale ! ' 

Loud swelled the tempest, and rose the shriek — 
' Save ! save ! — we are sinking ! — A leak ! A leak ! ^ 
And the hale old skipper's tawny cheek 
Was cold, as 'twere sculptured in marble there. 
And white as the foam, or his own white hair. 

The wind piped shrilly — the wind piped loud — 

It shrieked 'mong the cordage — it howled in the shroud ; 

And the sleet fell thick from the cold, dun cloud — 



54 



But high over all, in tones of glee, 
The voice of the mate rang cheerily — 

' Now, men, for your wives' and your sweethearts' sakes 
Cheer ! messmates cheer ! — quick ! man the brakes ! 
We'll gain on the leak ere the skipper wakes ! 
And though our peril your hearts appal. 
Ere dawns the morrow we'll laugh at the squall ! ' 

He railed at the tempest, he laughed at its threats. 
He played with his fingers like castanets ; 
Yet think not that he, in his mirth, forgets 
That the plank he is riding this hour at sea, 
May launch him the next to eternity ! 

The white-haired skipper turned away, 
And lifted his hands, as it were to pray ; 
But his look spoke plainly as look could say, 
The boastful thought of the Pharisee — 
' Thank God ! I'm not hardened as others be ! ' 



55 



But the morning dawned, and the waves sank low, 
And the winds, o'er wearied, forbore to blow ; 
And our bark lay there in the golden glow — 
Flashing she lay in the bright sunshine. 
An ice-sheathed hulk on the cold, still brine. 

Well, shipmates, my yarn is almost spun — 
The cold and the tempest their work had done, 
And I was the last, lone, living one. 
Clinging, benumbed, to that wave-girt wreck. 
While the dead around me bestrewed the deck. 

Yea, the dead were round me everywhere ! 

The skipper gray, in the sunlight there, 

Still lifted his paralyzed hands in prayer; 

And the mate, whose tones through the darkness leapt, 

In the silent hush of the morning, slept. 

Oh ! bravely he perished who sought to save 
Our storm-tossed bark from the pitiless wave, 
And her crew from a yawning, and fathomless grave ; 



56 



Crying, " Messmates cheer ! " with a bright, glad smile, 
And praying, " Be merciful God ! " the while. 

True to his trust, to his last chill gasp, 
The helm lay clutched in his stiff, cold grasp ; 
You might scarcely in death undo the clasp — 
And his crisp, brown locks were dank and thin, 
And the icicles hung from his bearded chin. 

My timbers have weathered since, many a gale — 
And when life's tempests this hulk assail, 
And the binnacle lamp in my breast burns pale, 
' Cheer ! messmate cheer ! ' to my heart I say, 
' We must labor, in sooth, as well as pray ! '" 



PARTING WORDS. 

The wish my fainting heart this hour betrayeth, 
The haunting thought that e'er possesseth me ; 

The boon of thee my lonely spirit prayeth 
Is, that hereafter thou wilt think of me. 

Though broad the gulf our way henceforth dividing, 
Though wide our journeyings evermore, apart ; 

Yet, give mine image place with those abiding 
In the deep treasure chambers of thy heart. 

When newer friends invite thy soul to pleasure, 
And fairer hands en wreath thy cup of glee ; 

When mirth awakes the strings to joyful measure, 
Not in that hour would I remembered be. 



58 



When through the lone, and silent midnight gleaming, 
Some sleepless watcher marketh from afar, 

With steady radiance from thy casement beaming, 
Thy student lamp outshining like a star — 

And thou within, the illumined pages turning. 
By sage of old bequeathed to after kind ; 

Where through the lore of darker age is burning 
Forevermore, some mighty master mind. 

Would' St trace the soul's mysterious revealing. 
Till thought grows pale before the task sublime ; 

Then let my face upon thy memory stealing. 
Beam out to thee through the dark mist of time. 

Thus, ever thus, my restless spirit chiding, 

Impels the wish I suppliant impart — 
Oh ! grant mine image place with those abiding 

Among the memories treasured in thy heart. 



TELL ME ALL. 



" Story !— God bless you ! I have none to tell ! " 



" Come, mother ! sit beneath the vine, 

Here by our open door. 
And tell me who my fathers were 

In the glorious days of yore. 

I've read to-day such glowing tales — 

Wondering o'er every line — 
Of the knights who fought for the holy cross, 

In the wars of Palestine — 



60 



Of their prancing steeds, and flashing spears, 

And their pennons waving out. 
And the clarions minghng on the air 

With the stirring battle shout — 

Till I seemed to hear the rush of fight, 

The Moslem's rallying cry, 
The Christian charge, and the Paynim rout. 

And the shouts of victory ! 

And were my sires bold, warrior knights ? 

Oh ! brave in their array ! 
Dear mother ! I am old enough — 

Tell me the tale, I pray ! " 

" I have no tales like these, my boy. 

In thy young ear to pour — 
Here, where we dwell, thy grandsire dwelt. 

As his grandsires did before. 



61 



With the healthful flush of manly toil, 
And the sweat-drop on their brow ; 

They won these fields from the wild and waste, 
By the mattock and the plough. 

They were the soil's true conquerors — 

A spotless name their shield ; 
And their banner was the waving grain 

Of the ripened harvest field. 

Seek not to deck thy fair, young brow 
With mouldering wreaths of fame ; 

But onward ! girt in manhood's might, 
And win thyself a name ! 

Guard well thy faith — keep true thy heart — 

Hold thou thine honor fast ; 
Thus be the lustre of thy worth 

Back on thy fathers cast. 



THE LAUNCH. 

A SOUND through old Trimountain went, 

A voice to great and small, 
That told of feast and merriment, 

And welcome kind to all. 
And there was gathering in the hall, 

And gathering on the strand , 
And many a heart beat anxiously 

That morning, on the sand. 
For 'tis the morn when Ocean tide. 

An hundred tongues record. 
Shall wed the daughter of the Oak — 

The mighty forest lord. 



63 



They dressed the bride in streamers gay, 

Her beauty to enhance ; 
And o'er her hung Columbia's stars, 

And the tri-fold flag of France — 
They decked her prow with rare device, 

With wealth of carving good ; 
And they girt her with a golden zone. 

The maiden of the wood. 

The gay tones of the artisan 

Fell lightly on the ear, 
And sound of vigorous hammer stroke 

Rang loudly out, and clear ; 
And stout arms swayed the ponderous sledge, 

While a shout the hills awoke, 
As forth to meet the bridegroom flood 

Swept the daughter of the Oak. 

And bending to the jewelled spray 

That rose her step to greet, 
She dashed aside the yesty waves 

That gathered round her feet ; 



64 



And down her path right gracefully, 
The queenly maiden pressed, 

Till the royal Ocean clasped her form 
To his broad and heaving breast. 

God guide thee o'er the trackless deep. 
My brother — brave and true ; 

God speed the good Damascus well, 
And shield her daring crew. 



THE HEARTH OE HOME. 

The storm around my dwelling sweeps, 
And while the boughs it fiercely reaps, 
My heart within a vigil keeps, 

The warm and cheering hearth beside ; 
And as I mark the kindling glow 
Brightly o'er all its radiance throw, 
Back to the years my memories flow, 

When Rome sat on her hills in pride ; 
When every stream, and grove, and tree, 
And fountain had its deity. 

The hearth was then, 'mong low and great, 
Unto the Lares consecrate : 
The youth arrived to man's estate 
There offered up his golden heart ; 



66 



Thither, when overwhelmed with dread, 

The stranger still for refuge fled, 

Was kindly cheered, and warmed, and fed, 

Till he might fearless thence depart : 
And there the slave, a slave no more. 
Hung reverent up the chain he Avore. 

Full many a change the hearth hath known 
The Druid fire, the curfew's tone. 
The log that bright at yule-tide shone, 

The merry sports of Hallow-e'en ; 
Yet still where'er a home is found. 
Gather the warm affections round. 
And there the notes of mirth resound, 

The voice of wisdom heard between : 
And welcomed there with words of grace, 
The stranger finds a resting place. 

Oh ! wheresoe'er our feet may roam, 
Still sacred is the hearth of home ; 
Whether beneath the princely dome, 
Or peasant's lowly roof it be. 



67 



For home the wanderer ever yearns ; 
Backward to where its hearth-fire burns, 
Like to the wife of old, he turns 

Fondly the eyes of memory. 
Back where his heart he offered first — 
Back where his fair, young hopes he nursed. 

My humble hearth though all disdain, 
Here may I cast aside the chain 
The world hath coldly on me lain ; 

Here to my Lares offer up 
The warm prayer of a grateful heart ; 
Thou that my household guardian art. 
That dost to me thine aid impart, 

And with thy mercy fiU'st my cup ; 
Strengthen the hope within my soul. 
Till I in faith may reach the goal. 



TO MARY OP KENTUCKY. 



" There's rosemary ; that's for remembrance."— ,S'Aafepe<we. 



On the fair shores of Hellas there grows a wild flower, 

To memory sacred — an emblem of thee ; 
It lives on through all changes, 'mid sunshine and shower. 

And botanists call it the Rose of the Sea.* 

Where the dwarf-shrub finds root, where the gray lichen 
springeth. 
Where the wild goat looks down from his height o'er 
the tide ; 
'Mid the chill frost, still fadeless, it fearlessly clingeth, 
In fragrance and bloom to the rock's rugged side. 

* Rosmarinus. 



69 



And thus when thy youth's lovely summer shall perish, 
When life's flowers lie withered and strown by the blast, 

Thy memory its fond recollections will cherish, 
Will cling in its verdure and bloom to the past. 

Oh ! well have they named thee ^^ Wild-flower of the 
Prairie," 

So gracefully blooming, dear one as thou art ; 
But I have baptized thee, my wild herb, Rose-Mary, 

Sweet flower of remembrance set deep in my heart. 



TO A PAIR OF OLD EAR-RINGS 

Ye antique shapes of rare device ! 
Ye pendant, jewelled gauds of price ! 

And fashioned — to what end abstruse ? 
Remnant of old, barbaric sway, 
Continued to our later day, 

And with us passing out of use — 

I marvel, now ye are displaced, 
That aught so heathenish e'er graced 

The fair, round ears of Christendom : — 
Your wealth of gems and filagree, 
Were more befitting bravery 

For mummy of the catacomb ! 



71 



Yet, as upon your shapes I gaze, 
The storied scenes of elder days 

Arise with force that reason mocks — 
Outspread beneath Arabia's skies, 
A pastoral land before me lies, 

Well filled with herds and scattering flocks. 

At Nahor's well a stranger waits — 
A maiden train comes forth the gates. 

And fair Rebekah leads the band — 
And now she stands the fount beside, 
Her beauteous cheek with blushes dyed, 

The jewelled offerings in her hand. 

The vision fades — and lo ! again, 
On Sinai's parched and desert plain. 

Seditious Israel murmuring stands, 
And priestly Aaron's mandate hears — 
'• Break off your ear-rings from your ears, 

And bring them hither in your hands ! " 



72 



To form he moulds the mohen ore, 
Like that Egyptian Apis wore ; 

With cunning hand he shapes it well — 
Then lifts the golden image high, 
And swells the host the exultant cry, 

" These are thy gods, oh, Israel ! " 

From gorgeous ceiling overhead, 
Light on a banquet board is shed. 

And moves the feast to flute-notes low- 
Blushing within its crowned cup 
The ruby-red wine sparkles up. 

And joyously the moments flow. 

Holds Cleopatra feast to night — 

And beauty's eyes flash mirth and light. 

As she who wears the diadem 
With jewelled hand puts back the curl, 
And from her ear unclasps the pearl, 

And in her goblet casts the gem. 



73 



Ye pendant shapes of precious ore ! 
Though ye adorn mine ears no more, 

Yet, relics of antiquity — 
From Vandal hands I'll guard ye well, 
For ye are potent as a spell, 

To conjure back the past to me. 



G* 



TEN YEARS AGO. 

Ten years ago ! — Ten years ! it seems 

A very holiday of time. 
Since bright romance with wildering dreams, 

Beguiled my girlhood's happy prime. 

Ten years ! — thou say'st their viewless flight. 
Upon my cheek hath left no trace — 

Mine eye still wears its curtained light, 
My step its own elastic grace. 

And hath my mien no more of care, 
Than when, adown yon grassy slope. 

With foot as free as morning air, 
I bounded like the antelope ? 



75 



Ten years have turned their daily page — 
My locks still wear their flowery crown ! 

There twine no silver threads of age 
Amid these braids of raven down ! 

Unchanged to thee ! unchanging aye ! 

Then what the flight of time to us ? 
Our feet have trod life's pleasant way, 

And found the well of Kanathus. 

Thus many a brow a beauty wears, 
Too constant seeming, e'er to part ; 

But ah ! the darksome track of years 
That lieth hidden in the heart ! 



A BIVOUAC IN THE DESERT 



" After the battle of the Pyramids, the whole way through the desert was tracked with the bones 
and bodies of men and animals, who had perished in these dreadful wastes. In order to warm them- 
selves at night, they gathered together the dry bones and bodies of the dead, which the vultures had 
spared, and it was by afire composed of this fuel that Napoleon lay down to sleep in the desert."— MioVa 
Memoirs. 



The ploughshare of the conqueror passed 
Across the burning, desert plain ; 

While on the sower followed fast, 

And scattered in the bright, red grain. 

And tracking on that welded blade. 

Forged from their countless battle-brands ; 

Far o'er the broad, deep furrow made, 
On swept his trained Praetorian bands. 



71 



The vulture is the desert's king ! 

And what of conquerors recketh he ? 
Who bounds his empire by his whig, 

Reigneth, I ween, right fearlessly ! 

'Twas night — the conqueror's harvest night- 
No star in heaven its glories hid ; 

And poured the moon her radiant light 
On desert, tent, and pyramid. 

The reaper's blade its toil forsook — 

And in the glittering river Nile 
The plumed and turban'd Mameluke 

Slept with the scale-armed crocodile. 

Oh, Isis ! thou adored of old 

With mystic rite, and symbol rare ; 

Rude hands have rent thy veil's dark fold, 
And lain thy hidden altars bare. 



78 



The crescent gleams from Moslem tower. 
High o'er the walls of Ptolemy ; 

And naught but thine own lotos flower, 
Oh, Nilus ! bends to worship thee. 

The jackal and the wolf are out, 
A phantom army holds the plain ; 

Why pales the conqueror ? Is't with fear 
His blood runs chill through every vein ? 

Fear ! was't a word for him who played 
The sword 'gainst crown and sceptre old ? 

Write FEAR where drave his furrowing blade 
Who trembled but beneath the cold ! 

Ho ! ye that reaped the ripened field — 
What left ye to the gleaner's hand ? 

Her stubble let the desert yield, 

To cheer this wide, unvarying sand ! 



79 



For leagues away, the barren plain 

Nor tree, nor shrub, nor verdure owns — 

Where they had sown the blood-red grain, 

They gleaned but blanched, and mouldering bones. 

And where of old the cloud and fire 

Led on the wandering Israelite, 
They heaped the pile — till fat the pyre 

Reared its red column on the night. 

And fast the fanning night- wind came. 

And high the scroll accusing swept ; 
While 'neath that uplift tongue of flame. 

That burned to heaven, the conqueror slept ! 



THE POOR, GOD HELP THEM. 

Old Winter comes Avith a stealthy tread, 

O'er the fallen autumn leaves, 
And shrilly he whistleth overhead, 

And pipeth beneath the eaves. 
Let him come ! we care not amid our mirth, 

For the driving snow or rain ; 
For little reck we of the cheerless hearth, 

Or the broken window pane. 

'Tis a stormy night, but our glee shall mock, 

At the winds that loudly prate, 
As they echo the moan of the poor that knock 

With their cold hands at our gate. 



81 



The poor ! we give them the half-picked bone, 

And the dry and mildewed bread ; 
Ah ! they never, God help them, know the pain 

Of the pampered over-fed. 

Fill round again with cheering wine, 

While the fire glows warm and bright ; 
And sing me a song, sweet heart of mine, 

Ere you whisper the words " Good night ! " 
You never will dream, 'neath the covering warm 

Of your soft and curtained bed. 
Of the scanty rug and the shivering form. 

And the yawning roof o'erhead. 

The poor ! God pity them in their need ! 

We've a prayer for their every groan ; 
They ask us with outstretched hands for bread, 

And we carelessly give a stone. 



82 



God help them ! God help us ! for much we lack, 

Though lofty and rich we be ; 
And open our hearts unto all that knock 

With the cry of charity. 



THE SPIRIT-BOND. 

What is the spell that binds my soul, 
As with a silver cord, to thee ; 

That brims with joy life's golden bowl, 
And wakes each pulse to ecstacy ? 

Methinks, in some far distant sphere, 
Some star in memory dimly set, 

That we, for years long sundered here, 
In high communion erst have met. 

And yet our souls to each were dark, 
As is the broad, mysterious sea ; 

Till lighted by the electric spark. 
Struck from the chain of sympathy. 



84 



'Tis sympathy that binds my soul. 
As with a silver cord to thee ; 

That brims with joy hfe's golden bowl, 
And wakes each pulse to ecstacy. 



THE GREEN MOUNTAINS OF VERMONT. 

Stronghold of Freedom's stalwart band ! 
Firm as when to the all-forming hand 

Your peaks from chaos rose — 
Piled not like Atlas in its might, 
Nor Alps, nor Andes in your height, 

Crowned, with perpetual snows. 

Proud cradle of the Yermontese ! 

Where healthful floats the mountain breeze, 

Oh ! give me but again 
To track that valley green and fair. 
By soft Winooski wandering there 

In beauty to Champlain. 



86 



Oh ! glorious first when morning bright 
Lifted the mantle of the night 

From off your glittering sides, 
Ye broke upon my raptured view — ^ 
In robes of mist, and pearls of dew, 

Bedecked like Eastern brides. 

Up flowed your veils of gauzy sheen — 
There lay your pastures, all in green, 

Outspreading 'neath the sun ; 
Nor toiled your husbandmen in vain — 
For wide the yellow, ripened grain 

Waved o'er ye, every one. 

The kine lowed on each grassy steep. 
There, in your shadows browsed the sheep 

And winged the laden bee ; 
All flashing welled the mountain springs, 
The sparkling rills, like living things. 

Leaped downward, joyously. 



87 



Short time I breathed your mountain air, 
Or lingered 'mong your valleys fair, 

Or by that winding river ; 
But oh ! your loveliness to me 
Is pictured bright in memory, 

There to endure forever. 



A ROMANCE. 

I BOWED to thee in spirit, 

Like a pagan at the shrine — 
Every thought went up Hke incense 

To the one I named divine. 
But thou recklessly hast riven 

The false idol from my heart, 
And I shame that e'er I loved thee, 

Weak and faithless as thou art. 

I deemed that He who fashioned. 
Thee all-glorious did create ; 

That thy nature, like the eagle. 
Might alone with eagles mate : 



89 

That o'er thy broad dominion 
As the falcon's was thy flight ; 

But thou hast stooped thy pinion, 
Like the craven-hearted kite. 

The love that I have guarded 

Like a fair flower from the sun, 
I cast forth withered, worthless, 

From the heart thy seeming won. 
Thou, that in pride I likened 

To the oak 'mong forest trees ; 
Hast proved thee but a hollow reed. 

That e'er bendeth in the breeze. 

Go forth with lance and pennon, 
Where the serried spears flash bright ; 

More meet for thee were silken glove, 
Than the gauntlet of the knight ! 



90 



Thou ait foremost at the banquet, 
Thou art brave in lady's bower; 

But thy heart will quail before the trump, 
In the trying battle hour ! 

Away ! — I scorn the courtesy 

Thy lip would idly frame ; 
And palsied be thy false tongue 

When it lightly names my name ! 
Thus spake fair Esperanza, 

With a proud flush on her cheek ; 
While the knight turned through the postern. 

And ne'er a word did speak. 



THE WRECK. 

A SHIP lay on her homeward track, 
Right onward o'er the swelUng sea ; 

She flung the impeding waters back. 
She rode the tall waves fearlessly. 

Thus cleaving her imperious way 
From where the far horizon swept ; 

Since morning on the billow lay. 
The gallant bark her course had kept. 

The red sun lay on ocean's breast. 
Lighting the broad, empurpled sea ; 

While all the gorgeous, cloud-piled west 
Glowed high with heaven's own alchemy. 



92 



Now o'er the wave what dusky streak 

Dim on the far horizon Ues ? 
Hope hghts the toil-worn seaman's cheek, 

*^ Land ! — land ahead ! " with joy, he cries. 

The paths his feet in fancy prest, 

In vision to his thought arise ; 
The stream, the bough, the wild-bird's nest, 

On fancy's chart before him lies. 

He leaps the gate, bounds o'er the brook, 
Sees the far smoke upwreathing dim ; 

And now, from out some hidden nook. 
The old dog bounds to welcome him. 

He feels each dear one's warm embrace, 
And well known voices meet his ear ; 

Hark ! — from aloft, his dream to chase. 
Sounds peal on peal the note of fear. 



93 



A tempest rides the murky cloud, 
A midnight darkness veils the air ; 

Save when, from out the dusky shroud, 
O'er shattered mast and cordage bare, 

The red, forked lightnings sweep the sky, 

And blaze upon her riven sail ; 
While the mad waters lift on high 

Their foaming summits to the gale. 

Around, beneath, the hidden rock, 
A threatening shore upon her lee ; 

Horror ! — she strikes ! with rending shock, 
And o'er her sweeps the engulphing sea ! 

And on the loud winds hurrying by, 

Went oath, and shout, and muttered prayer : 

And one long, loud, despairing cry 
Rang wildly through the stormy air. 



94 



Morn rose in glory o'er the tide — 
All tranquil lay the molten sea, 

While o'er its rocky margin wide 
The merry wavelets danced in glee. 

Sad trace of wreck bestrewed the sand- 
Here, to a rent and shattered mast. 

Fast bound by some despairing hand, 
A starred and tattered flag was cast. 

And there, beyond the tempest's reach. 
Beyond the billows' wrathful sway ; 

In death fast anchored to the beach, 
Sad sight ! a youthful sailor lay. 

No more for him, o'er cherished earth, 
The rising sun at morn shall burn ; 

His place is vacant by the hearth — 
The DEAD may ne'er again return. 



A THOUGHT OF THE PILGRIMS. 

How beauteous in the morning light, 

Bright glittering in her pride, 
Trimountain,^^ from her ancient height, 

Looks down upon the tide. 
The fond wind woo's her from the sea, 
And ocean clasps her lovingly. 

As bridegroom clasps his bride. 

And out across the waters dark, 

Careering on their way. 
Full many a gallant, home-bound bark 

Comes dashing up the bay. 

' Boston— built upon three hills— was originally named, by the early settlers, " Trimountain." 



96 



Their pennons float on morning's gale, 
The sunhght gilds each sweUing sail, 
And flashes on the spray. 

Not thus towards fair New England's coast, 

With eager-hearted crew, 
The pilgrim-freighted, tempest-tost, 

And lonely Mayflower drew. 
There was no hand outstretched to bless, 
No welcome from the wilderness 

To cheer her hardy few. 

But onward drove the winter clouds 

Athwart the darkening sky, 
And hoarsely through the stiffened shrouds 

The wind swept stormily ; 
While shrill from out the beetling rock 
That seemed the billows' force to mock. 

Broke forth the sea-gull's cry. 



97 



God's blessing on their memories ! 

Those sturdy men and bold. 
Who girt their hearts in righteousness, 

Like martyr saints of old ; 
And 'mid oppression sternly sought, 
To hold the sacred boon of thought, 

In freedom uncontrolled. 

They left the old, ancestral hall. 
The creed they might not own ; 

They left home, kindred, fortune, all — 
Left glory and renown. 

For what to them was pride of birth, 

Or what to them the pomp of earth 
Who sought a heavenly crown? 

Strong armed in faith they crossed the flood- 
Here, mid the forest fair, 

With axe and mattock, from the wood 
They laid broad pastures bare ; 
I* 



98 



And with the ploughshare turned the plain, 
And planted fields of yellow grain, 
And built their dwellings there. 

The Pilgrim Sires ! — How from the night 

Of centuries dim and vast, 
It comes o'er every hill and height, 

That watchword from the past ! 
And old men's pulses quicker bound, 
And young hearts leap to hear the sound. 

As at the trumpet's blast. 

And though the Pilgrims' day hath set, 

Its glorious light remains — 
Its beam refulgent lingers yet 

O'er all New England's plains. 
Dear land ! — though doomed from thee to part, 
The blood that warmed the Pilgrim's heart 

Swells proudly in my veins ! 



99 



Go to the islands of the sea, 

Wherever man nxay dare ; 
Wherever pagan bows the knee, 

Or Christian bends in prayer ; 
To every shore that bounds the main, 
Wherever keel on strand hath lain, 

New England's sons are there. 

Toil they for wealth on distant coast, 
Roam they from sea to sea ; 

Self-exiled, still her children boast 
Their birth-place 'mong the free. 

Or seek they fame on glory's track. 

Their hearts, like niine, turn ever back 
New England ! unto thee. 



SONG OF THE OWL. 

Aloft in my ancient, sky-roofed liall, 

In my old, gray turret high, 
Where the ivy waves o'er the crumbling wall, 

Like a king ! a king reign I ! 
Tu-whoo ! 
I wake the woods with my startling call 

To the frighted passer-by. 

The gadding vines in the chinks that grow, 

Come clambering up to me; 
And the newt, the bat, and the toad, I trow, 

A right-merry band are we. 
Tu-whoo ! 
Oh ! the cofRn'd monks in their cells below, 

Have no goodlier company. 

When the sweet dew sleeps in the midnight cool, 
-To some tree top I win ; 



101 



While the toad leaps up on her throne-like stool, 

And our revels loud begin — 
Tu-whoo ! 
And the bull-frog croaks by yon stagnant pool, 

Ere he sportive plunges in. 

And the blind bat wheels through the cloister shades, 

Where none unscared may pass ; 
And the newt glides forth through the long arcades, 

Where the glow-worm lights the grass — 
Tu-whoo ! 
And Will o' the wisp o'er the broad, green glades, 

Flits along to the far morass. 

And thus I ween all the livelong night, 

A right gladsome life lead we ; 
While the stars look down from their jewelled height, 

On our sports approvingly. 
Tu-whoo ! 
They may bask who will in the mid-day light, 

But the midnight gloom for me ! 



TO MRS. H. P. S. 

God speed the bark that bears thee forth 
To cross the treacherous sea — 

Oh, lady ! would I were a bird, 
That I might follow thee ! 

It is not that your Eastern land 

Hath fairer tinted flowers, 
And brighter streams, and balmier gales. 

Than this cold clime of ours — 

For here the perfumed violets spring 

In all our pastures wide ; 
And here amid their long green leaves 

The valley lilies hide — 



103 

'Tis not that through your orient heaven, 

Up to its native skies, 
Poised on its golden pinions, floats 

The bird of paradise — 

For a sweeter note the robin hath, 
That builds amid the leaves ; 

And we better love the social bird 
That nestles in the eaves — 

And dearer than your groves of palm, 

By Indian breezes fanned. 
We prize the spreading forest trees 

Of our own native land — 

But thou wilt clasp again his hand, 

Whose face I yearn to see — 
Oh ! would I had an eagle's wings. 

That I might follow thee ! 



104 

His glad- toned voice shall welcome thee, 
Like some long watched for star ; 

Or like a pleasant strain that brings 
Sweet memories from afar. 

I freight thee forth with tender words — 
Ah ! words can ne'er impart 

The deep, unfailing love that wells 
Within a sister's heart. 

I watch the dim and lessening sail 
That bears thee o'er the sea — 

Oh, lady ! would I were a bird. 
That I might follow thee ! 



rxEEEJY PLACES IJY THE CITY. 

Ye fill my heart with gladness, verdant places, 
That 'mid the City greet me, where I pass— 

Methinks I see of angel-steps the traces, 
Where'er upon my pathway springs the grass. 

I pause before your gates at early morning, 

When lies the sward with glittering sheen o'erspread ; 

And think the dew-drops there each blade adorning, 
Are angel's tears for mortal frailty shed. 

And ye -earth's firstlings— here in beauty springing, 
Erst in your cells by careful winter nursed— 

And to the morning heaven your incense flinging. 
As at His smile ye forth in gladness burst— 



106 



How do ye cheer with hope my lonely hour. 
When on my way I tread despondingly ; 

With thought that He who careth for the flower, 
Will, in His mercy, still remember me. 

Breath of our nostrils — Thou ! whose love embraces — 

Whose light shall never from our souls depart — 
Beneath thy touch hath sprung a green oasis 

Amid the arid desert of my heart. 
Thy sun and rain call forth the bud of promise. 

And with fresh leaves in spring time deck the tree ; 
That where man's hand hath shut out nature from us, 

We, by these glimpses, may remember Thee ! 



A LAMENT FOR THE OLD YEAR. 

There was sound of mirth by the lowly hearth, 

And in lordly mansion high ; 
For the gray Old Year, in his mantle sere, 

Had folded him down to die. 
And the midnight clang of his death-knell rang 

O'er an hundred blazing pyres, 
As they gathered him there, by the firelight's glare. 

To the tomb of his hoary sires. 

Yet my heart was sad 'mid the voices glad, 
For I thought on the Old Year's graves — 

On the warm tears wept for the brave who slept 
In the ocean's tide- worn caves. 



108 



I am old ! — I am old ! — There were locks of gold, 
There were cheeks that bloomed like May ; 

And the bounding form, and the young heart warm, 
They have passed from my side away. 

There were eyes of light on my pathway bright, 

There were arms that round me clung ; 
They sleep in the fold of the death-shroud cold, 

The tenanted tombs among. 
Where the ivy creeps — where the night- wind sweeps — 

Where battens the worm, Decay — 
They are there ! they are there ! through the midnight air 

They are beckoning me away. 

Oh ! the New Year hath come from his far off home, . 

O'er the frost-bound Arctic wave ; 
And the ice-shod feet of his coursers fleet. 

Have swept o^er the Old Year's grave. 
He is here ! he is here ! the hale New Year ! 

They have kindled an hundred fires ; 
But my heart lies cold, with the Monarch old. 

In the tomb of his hoary sires. 



BLESS THEE. 

I MAY not break the holy spell 

Thy beauty wove around me. 
Till time shall loose the silver cord 

That long to earth hath bound me. 
I see thee smile on loftier ones. 

And mark the proud caress thee ; 
Yet when my lips would ope to curse, 

They never fail to bless thee. 

One memory round me everywhere, 

One task in silence set me — 
The ever, ever thinking on. 

And striving to forget thee. 
And though the ever-goading thought 

To madness thus oppress me, 
I may not curse — I cannot hate — 

My heart still whispers, " Bless thee !" 



A TALE OF LUZON. 

Sits the old man in his dwelling, 'neath the lowly roof of 

reeds, 
To himself his sorrows telling, as a hermit tells his beads — 
'Mid the hush of glowing noontide scarce a leaf stirs in 

the breeze, 
Where it floateth, perfume-laden, lightly o'er the citron 

trees, 
And a silver fount is flashing in the sunlight near the 

door. 
Making music with its plashing, rippling o'er the pebbly 

floor. 
But the old man, all unheeding, sits in loneliness apart, 
Still the page of memory reading deeply traced upon his 

heart. 
Lo, he weepeth ! no one seeth where the tear adown his 

vest 
Trickles o'er the scapulary hanging low upon his breast. 



Ill 



Bat anon he reverent bending crosses thrice his furrowed 

brow. 
And his voice is utterance lending to his plaintive spirit 
now — 

'' Mary Mother ! Mother ! hear me ! 

Hear a sorrowing heart complain — 
Earthly sorrow once came near thee, 

Thou hast suffered mortal pain. 
To the World's polluted altars 

I from holier temples turned, 
And my heart, as 'twere a censer, 

There before mine idol burned, 
As the tree her odorous incense 

Poureth ever to the sun — 
I have found the God I worshipped 

But a base parhelion ! 
Life's bright visions all have left me 

Where my hopes lie crushed and strown ; 
Time of all I loved hath reft me. 

And I am alone — alone ! 
Yet my soul, amid the ashes 

Where I sit with memory. 



112 



Through the tears that cloud my lashes, 
Star of Heaven ! looks up to thee ! " 
Now, a bird swan-white, and shaking drops like diamonds 

from his plumes, 
Springs from out the glancing fountain, and across the 

garden blooms, 
Bright as 'twere a heavenly sunbeam, darteth through 

the open door — 
Swan- white, enters like a spirit from the far Elysian 

shore. 
Thrice the old man round he circles in a viewless, airy 

ring, 
Then upon the rude, stone table, folding down each 

snowy wing. 
Silently the white bird perches close beside the old man's 

place, 
And with eyes clear, soft, and luminous, looketh in his 

sorrowing face. — 
Lo ! the sun, long past its zenith, hasteth on to other 

lands, 
And no more the old man leaneth down his brow upon 
his hands. 



113 



But beneath the glowing sunset in the cottage door he 

stands. 
None may know what words of comfort that swan- white 

bird could impart, 
But joy illumes the old man's visage, and sweet peace is 

in his heart. 



LAY. 

A Lay of love ! ask yonder sea 

For wealth its waves have closed upon — 
A song from stern Thermopyla? — 
A battle-shout from Marathon ! 
Look on my brow ! reveals it naught ? 

It hideth deep rememberings. 
Enduring as the records wrought 
Within the tombs of Egypt's kings ! 

Take thou the harp — I may not sing — 

Awake the Teian lay divine, 
Till fire from every glowing string 
Shall mingle with the flashing wine ! 



11 



The Theban lyre but to the sun 

Gave forth at morn its answering tone ; 
So mine but echoed when the one, 

One sunUt glance was o'er it thrown. 
The Memnon sounds no more ! my lyre ! 

A veil upon thy strings is flung — 
I may not wake the chords of fire, 
The words that burn upon my tongue. 

Fill high the cup — I may not sing — 

My hands the crowning buds will twine- 
Pour — till the wreath I o'er it fling 
Shall mingle with the rosy wine. 

No lay of Love ! the lava stream 

Hath left its trace on heart and brain ! 
No more ! no more ! — the maddening theme 

Will wake the slumbering fires again ! 
Fling back the shroud on buried years — 

Hail ! to the ever-blooming hours ! 
We'll fill Time's glass with ruby tears, 

And twine his bald, old brow, with flowers ! 



116 

Fill high ! fill high ! I may not sing — 
Strike forth the Teian lay divine, 

Till fire from every glowing string 
Shall mingle with the flashing wine ! 



TO MARY. 

Thine eye is like the violet, 

Thou hast the lily's grace; 
And the pure thoughts of a maiden's heart 

Are writ upon thy face. 
And like a pleasant melody 

That to memory hath clungj 
Falls thy voice, in the loved accent 

Of mine own New England tongue. 

New England — dear New England ! — 

All numberless they lie. 
The green graves of my people, 

Beneath her far, blue sky. 



118 

And the same bright sun that shmeth 
On thy home at early morn, 

Lights the dwellings of my kindred, 
And the house where I was born. 

Oh, fairest of her daughters ! 

That bid'st me so rejoice 
'Neath the starhght of thy beauty, 

And the music of thy voice — 
While memory hath power 

In my heart her joys to wake, 
I will love thee, Mary, for thine own, 

And for New England's sake. 



THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 

'Tis said of old a fountain lay- 
Hid in the forest, far away — 

A magic fount it was in sooth — 
Where he who stooped above the brink, 
And laved his brow, and bent to drink, 

Though he were bowed with years before, 
The semblance of unchanging youth, 

Thenceforth should wear forevermore. 

But he alone hath reached the goal, 
Who, turning from the world aside, 

'Mid the green places of the soul 

Hath sought the pure, life-giving tide, 

That wells with faith, and love, and truth — 

The fountain of perpetual youth. 



THE OCEAN-TIDE TO THE RIVULET 

My voice is hoarse with calling to the deep, 
While, as I bore me on with measured sweep. 

To where beneath the jutting cape I rest, 
The warring night- winds smote upon my way, 
And the fierce lightnings joined in wild alFray, 

And hurled their fiery javelins at my breast. 

Night — and abroad there moves no living thing ! 
Sunk on her nest the sea-gull folds her wing. 

The bearded goat hath left the cliff on high, — 
Of thy fair feet the parched sand bears no trace — 
Beloved ! I wait thee at our meeting place, 

I call, but echo gives alone reply. 



121 



To what far thicket have thy hght steps won 1 
Shunning the rude gaze of the amorous sun, 

In what dark fountain doth thy sweetness hide ? 
No star shines through the rift in yonder sky — 
None may behold thee where thou wanderest by — 

Bound from thy lurking forth my woodland bride ! 

Sadly the flowers their faded petals close, 
Where on thy banks they languidly repose, 

Waiting in vain to hear thee onward press ; 
And pale Narcissus by thy margin side 
Hath lingered for thy coming, drooped, and died, 

Pining for thee, amid the loneliness. 

Hasten, beloved ! here, 'neath the o'erhanging rock, — 
Hark ! from the deep, my anxious hope to mock. 

They call me backward to my parent main, — 
Brighter than Thetis thou ! and how more fleet — 
I hear the rushing of thy fair, white feet, 

Joy ! — joy ! — my breast receives its own again ! 

L* 



OSCEOLA SIGNING THE TREATY 

Stern in the white man's council hall, 
'Mid his red brethren of the wood, 

While fearless flashed his eye on all, 
The chieftain Osceola stood — 

And fast the words that keenly stung. 

Like arrows hurtled from his tongue. 

'' Brothers ! " he said, " and ye are come 
To sign the white man's treaty here, — 

To yield to him our forest home. 
And he will give us lands and deer 

Beyond the western prairie flowers, 

For these broad hunting grounds of ours. 



123 

The pale face is a singing bird ! 

Hungry and crafty as the kite — 
And ye his cunning song have heard 

Till like his cheek your hearts are white ! 
Till for his fire-drink and his gold 
Your fathers' bones their sons have sold ! 

And ye, the strong and pale of face, 

Have bought the Indian's hunting ground- 
Bought his time-honored burial place, 

With little gold and many a wound — 
Yea — bought his right with hand of mail ! 
And with your blood-hounds on the trail, 

You drive him from the everglades, 

Beyond the Mississippi's flow. 
And with your rifles and your blades 

You hunt him like the buff"alo — 
Till turns he, goaded, maddened, back, 
To strike the foe upon the track ! 



124 

Let the white chieftains pause, and hear 

The answer of the Seminole : — 
The red man is a foe to fear — 

He will not sign yon faithless scroll. 
Nor yield to you the lands ye prize — 
The war-belt on your pathway lies ! " 

Leapt from its wampum band the glaive. 
As from the bent bow leaps the shaft, 

And fierce the tempered steel he drave 

Through board and parchment, to the haft ; 

''And thus," he said, with eye of flame — 

" Thus Osceola signs your claim ! " 



PERSEVERANDO. 



FEOM XHE FRENCU OF VICTOR HUGO. 



"Le genie e'est 1' aigle! oiseau de la tempete," etc. 



True genius, like the eagle, seeks 

The height of the loftiest mountain peaks- 

Oh, never his talons defileth he ! 
His fierce cry hails the awakening day — 
His eye to the sun darts back its ray. 

Like the lightning in its intensity ! 

And his is no nest of moss, I ween — 
But high on the crag that juts between 
The heavens aloft and the dread abyss. 



126 

His eyrie, formed 'mid the tempest's shock, 
Dug by a thunderbolt from the rock. 
Hangs beetUng over the precipice ! 

Oh, not with the worm and the gilded bee, 
His hungry and clamoring brood feeds he — 

Not the butterfly with its gilded wings ; — 
But the carrion kite and the lizard foul. 
The hideous snake and the hooting owl, 

He to the bristling eaglets flings ! 

Where the threat'ning cloud on the mountain's crest 
Hangs like an avalanche o'er his nest. 

He rears his young 'mid the thunder-burst ; 
All proudly braving its vengeful ire. 
He turns to the sun their eyes of fire — 

Thus be thy thoughts. Oh Genius ! nursed. 



TO A MUSICIAN. 

Oh ! wondrous, God-taught master 
Of the high and holy art ! 

What spell lies in thy cunning hand 
To enthral and sway the heart ? 

Thou sweepest notes triumphal 
From the pealing chords on high, 

And the spirit wildly boundeth 
To the soul-awakening cry ! 

We feel each nerve with rapture thrill- 
Each pulse, responsive start ; 

And the life-tide quicken, till the flood 
Swells proudly through the heart. 



128 

NoWj o'er the prisoned senses 

Come stealing, soft and low, 
Sweet, half-forgotten melodies 

We cherished long ago — 
And far, faint, spirit voices 

Seem whispering to us here, 
Of a dim remembered angel state 

In some holier, happier sphere — 
Haunting us with vague memories. 

From the vast — the undefined. 
As if some echo from our past 

Within thy thought were shrined. 

'Tis the mighty spell of music — 

Such as woke in yonder sky 
When the morning stars together sang 

In heaven-born harmony ! 
Be near me in that fearful hour 

Of dread and mystery, 
When the weary soul would spread its wing 

For immortality — 



129 

So may my passing spirit, 

Parting homeward for the skies ; 
Be wafted on thy seraph strains 

To the shores of Paradise. 



M 



THE HIGHLANDER'S WAGER 



A BALLAD. 



A KNIGHT upon his bare-boned steed, 

A steel-clad knight was he — 
And a Scot in plaid and eagle plume, 

Came riding o'er the lea; 
And each drew rein at the low-browed door 

Of a Hieland hostelrie. 

"Ale !" — called the Scot, as they crossed the stone 

Of the hostel low and dim ; 
And he blew the foam, as it whitened up, 

From the brown draught's creamy brim. 
And shook the drop as he drained the cup, 

From the goblet's horny rim. 



131 



They sate them on the old worn seat, 

By the blazing logs of pine ; 
'• Ho ! " laugh'd the knight, '' your Scottish 'broo' 

May not slaken thirst like mine ! " 
And he struck the seat with his mailed hand, 

And shouted '' wine ! — ho ! — wine ! " 

Quoth he, ''your chiefs to gentle blood, 

Right gentle ways might win — 
I marvel how they sit at meat 

With their rude and bare-legged kin, 
While each candle drips on the darkened floor, 

From its hanging sconce of tin. 

I swear by the Holy Rood ! sir Scot," 

(Oh, a braggart knight was he) — 
"I feasted there with a Lowland lord — 

A lord of high degree — 
Where wine was served in silver cups, 

By a page on bended knee ! 



132 

From silver flagons, planted nigh, 
With odorous Rhine wines stored, 

A dozen hveried serving men 
The sparkUng beverage poured ; 

And a score of silver candlesticks 
Graced the noble's princely board ! 

I hold you, Scot, my knightly sword, 

And an hundred merks beside, 
There's nor silver flagon, nor candlestick. 

In your whole hill-country wide — 
And your ale, I trow, hath the muddy flow 

Of your boasted river Clyde ! " 

When shrank a Scot from Southron boast. 

From skirmish bold, or raid 7 
His hand was on his trusty skene, 

Within his belted plaid, 
" My claymore good 'gainst thy knightly sword. 

For an hundred merks " — he said. 



133 

'' The Gael, sir knight, ne'er stays for meat 

When the targe is at his back ; 
Nor hunts the deer in upland glade 

When the foe is on his track ; 
Nor leaves the field for the reeking haunch, 

Like the hungry Sassenach. 

But when the foe hath left the height, 

Then away o'er heath and fen, 
We chase the deer from his woody lair 

In the wild and tangled glen — 
And a fat haunch smokes on the chieftain's board, 

From the lordly buck of ten.* 

True, that nor page nor silver cup. 

Our homely feasts adorn — 
Our wassail bowls are the oaken quaigh, 

And the ruder drinking horn — 
And our wine we press from the bearded ears 

Of the ripened barle^^-corn. 

*Antlers of ten tines, 

M* 



134 

Yet I hold a cup of Scottish ale 
Worth a tun of your Saxon wine ! 

Who would barter a horn of fairentosh 
For the vineyards of the Rhine ? 

'I could write the lie/ thought the wary Scot, 
' On that boastful tongue of thine ! ' 

But an hundred merks to thine, sir knight, 

On the sconces here — I hold 
There are better far in my father's house, 

And of weight and worth untold — 
Full fifty, ranged at the nightly board, 

All of tried and proven gold ! 

The sun is low — the hills afar — 

Our way lies o'er the lea — 
Thou shalt judge aright ere morning dawn, 

Have I wagered well with thee." 
And the twain were wending their onward way 

O'er the heather, silently. 



135 



The twain are standing in the hall, 
Where the well-piled board is spread 

With the moor-fowl, and the smoking haunch, 
And the good brawn at the head — 

And a warm ray falls on the old oak floor. 
From the blazing peat-fire shed. 

And moveless all, as marble men, 
With bare and downtarned blade ; 

Full fifty clansmen held the hall, 
In Highland garb arrayed — 

While each uplifted a flaming torch. 
Of the well dried bog-pine made. 

The knight starts back — but the stalwart Scot 

Had not parted from his side ; 
And again he hears the deep-toned voice 

Of his plumed and tartaned guide — 
" Behold ! sir knight, the candlesticks 

Of my father's house of pride ! 
They were dross, the sconces of yon lord. 

With such sterling metal tried!" 



THE INDIAN WIFE. 

The glittering dew on leaf and blade, 

Flashed bright in morning's beam ; 
When an Indian wife unmoored her skiff. 

And launched upon the stream. 
One hand, as 'twere instinctively, 

The paddle listless plied ; 
The other clasped a child that clung 

In terror to her side. 
Where far upon the fearful path 

The foaming cataract lay, 
Her gaze was on the arch that seemed 

The portal of their way ; 
And a song was on her pallid lip, 

And a wild light in her eye. 
As the current bore them swiftly on, 

Adown the stream, to die. 



137 



" There's a dark-eyed fawn in Miquon's lodge — 

Will he miss the Bounding Doe ? 
Will the hunter's foot be on our trail, 

To the land where our spirits go 1 
Oh ! a fairer form than mine, will bound 

At eve, to his embrace ; 
And another now will proudly bear 

His venison from the chase. 
And I have brought thee forth, my boy. 

From thy couch of panther's skin; 
When the chief returns will he know the hawk 

In the eagle's nest hath been 7 
I have launched our birchen-bark canoe, 

Our way lies toward the west — 
We are bound to the happy Hunting grounds 

In the Islands of the Blest. 
Droop' st thou my child? Thy cheek is pale ! 

Thy lips their hue forsake ! 
Dost thou FEAR to pass the waterfall, 

Ere we reach the Silent Lake 7 
Hark ! hark ! — soft spirit-voices call ! 

And amid the glittering spray, 



138 

Behold where bright Wahcondah stands 
And beckons me away ! 

I come ! — I come ! " — A shriek rose high, 
Above the cataract's roar; 

And the echoing hills gave back the cry- 
To the forest-girdled shore. 



PARTING FROM A HOUSEHOLD 

We are parting, as with shadows, 

From the friends of happy hours ; 
From the eyes whose kindly glances 

Were as sunbeams unto flowers — 
From the sound of gentle voices, 

Whose tones have cast a spell 
Of gladness, over every word, 

Save that dread word — " farewell ! " 

Do we pass, to be forgotten, 

From the fireside and the board ; 

With our parting footsteps, lightly forth 
Like a jest — an idle word 7 



140 

The sea lamenteth not the foam 
Flung from its dashing crest ; 

Nor the eagle the loosed feather 
That is falling from his breast ! 

O friends ! we would be treasured still ! 

Though Time's cold hand should cast 
His misty veil, in after years, 

Over the idol Past ; 
Yet send to us some offering thought, 

O'er memory's ocean wide; 
Pure as the Hindoo's votive lamp 

On Ganga's sacred tide. 



THE ROSE AND THE TOMB. 

FKOM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO. 

Thou that dwell' st within my shadow, — 

To the rose thus said the tomb, — 
Love's flower ! that here in freshness 

Bloom' st alone, amid the gloom — 
Thou that clingest to the sepulchre. 

Like a fadeless memory ; 
What dost thou with the early tears 

That the morning sheds on thee ? 

Then the rose, low breathing, answered, 

I distil a perfume here ; 
And I give its honied fragrance forth 

To the solemn atmosphere. 



142 

And thou, dark tomb ! discover 

What dost thou, amid thy walls, 
With the pale and silent guests that throng 

Thine ever open halls 1 
And the tomb said, of the beautiful 

That to mine abode are given ; 
For each pulseless form I yield, oh ! rose ! 

An angel soul to Heaven. 



THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 

O'er a fair blooming isle in the far Indian seas, 
Soars aloft a gay bird, in the face of the breeze : — 
Soars aloft, while the air with his glad voice outrings, 
As the gale rushing by smooths his gossamer wings. 

Afar through yon ether thy bright pathway lies, 
High upward, and onward, brave Bird of the Skies 
He who guideth the tempest, aid to thee doth impart, 
Giveth force to thy pinion, and strength to thy heart. 

Where the strong-plumed eagle springs up and away, 
'Mong the far clouds of morning thy mates are at play; — 
Then mount thee in gladness ! swell thy clear notes on 

high— 
Ah ! why hast thou wandered thus down from the sky ? 



144 



Thy gay wing is drooping, its plume wears a stain, 
Thou hast stooped thee to earth — thou may'st ne'er rise 

again ! 
How like is the spirit that soars to be free, 
In its flight — in its fall — oh thou bird ! unto thee ! 



LAMENT OF JOSEPHINE. 



' They parted as all lovers part- 
She with her wronged and breaking heart; 

But he, rejoicing he is free, 
Bounds like the captive from his chain, 

And wilfully believing she 
Hath found her liberty again."— L. E. L. 



The Empress ! — what's to me the empty name ! 

This regal state — this gUttering pageant Hfe ? 
A tinsell'd cheat ! — Am I not crowned with shame? 

Shorn of my glorious name, Napoleon's Wife ! 
Set with a bauble here to play my part, 
And shroud with veil of pomp my breaking heart. 

' Tis mockery ! — thought is with the days ere thou, 
Seeking the world's love, unto mine grew cold — 



146 



Ere yet the diadem entwined my brow, 

Tightening around my brain its serpent fold — 
When each quick Hfe pulse throbbed, unschooled of art, 
When my wide empire was Napoleon's heart ! 

My spirit quails before this loneliness — 

Why did no warning thought within me rise, 

Telling thy hand would stay its fond caress 
To wreathe the victim for the sacrifice ! 

That joy, the dove so to my bosom prest, 

Would change to this keen vulture at my breast ! 

Parted forever ! — who hath dared make twain 

Those He hath joined? — the nation's mighty voice ! 

And thou hast bounded forward from thy chain. 
Like the freed captive, — therefore, heart ! rejoice 

Above the ashes of thy hopes, that he 

Hath o'er their ruin leapt to liberty ! 



A SCENA 



Night on the Ionian Sea.— The Sicilian Coast, with Mount ^tna rising above, is seen in the distance. 
A Fishing boat, with Fishermen and Mariners.— They sing alternately, and in unison. 



AIR. 



Night ! Night ! — O'er Ionia's slumb'ring tide 

The watch-fire stars burn pale — 
How the waters flash as we onward gUde, 

'Neath the press of our sweUing sail ! 
There is richer ore in the darksome wave 

Than the tripos form of gold — 
The draught which they of Miletus gave 

To the Delphian shrine, of old. 



148 



CHORUS OF FISHERMEN. 

Cast — cast your nets as we silent ride. 
For the wealth of the ocean mine — 

The gems that low in the caverns hide, 
And lurk in the glittering brine. 

INVOCATION TO NEPTUNE. 
A FISHERMAN. 

Hear ! — Sea-God ! hear the lowly fisher's prayer- 
Behold ! we pour libation unto thee ! — 

We have no golden chalice wrought with care — 
Our humble cup we cast upon the sea. 

Be thou propitious ! — Fill our nets ere morn, 
From rocks beneath, in safety keep our prow ; 

And lo ! a gift thy temple to adorn, 

An offering to thine altar, here we vow. 

A MARINER. 

Erewhiles, as grappled hull to hull we lay, 
I smote the Norseman on the midland tide — 

I bore his shield a trophy from the fray, 
An hundred dents are on its bossy side. 



149 



The spear wherewith I conquered in the fight, 
And captured buckler shall our offering be — 

Guard us from danger on the wave to-night, 
From reef and shoal beneath the tranquil sea. 
( Voices repeat ;) — 

Guard us from peril on the wave to-night, 

From reef and shoal beneath the tranquil sea. 

ANOTHER VOICE. 

Night ! Night ! — Now the low wind hushes, — 
On Latmos couched Endymion sleeps — 
Lone Echo, moaning, her vigil keeps 

Where the soft, clear fountain gushes, — 
Typhoeus heaveth and Etna gleams. 
And the rock resoundeth where Scylla screams 

And the mighty whirlpool rushes ! 

CHORUS OF FISHERMEN AND MARINERS. 

Cast — cast your nets, as we silent ride, 
For the wealth of the ocean mine — 

The gems that low in the caverns hide 
And lurk in the glittering brine ! — 



150 



A horn sounds at a distance. 



THE HELMSMAN 



Hark ! — from beyond the clustering Cyclades, 

I hear old Triton wind his ringing horn ! 

Far up the midland sea its echoes borne, 
With ling'ring note come swelling on the breeze. 

Deucalion heard afar the wakening sound. 
And bent in gladness on his wave-girt height : 
And when in joy broke forth the morning light, 

The flood had pass'd — the vales lay green around. 

A MARINER AT THE PROW. 

Mark ! the orient blushes ! — ( Forces.)— Hail ! — 
The Sun-God comes from his ocean bride ! 
His steeds spring forth from yon glowing tide — 

Hail !— All hail !— 
Propontis glitters and Helle smiles, — 
He lifts his shield o'er th' Egean isles. 

It gildeth our purple sail. 



151 



CHORUS OF FISHERMEN AND MARINERS. 

Joy ! joy !— Our bark 'neath his beams shall ride, 

As we toil o'er the ocean mine — 
Cast— cast your nets as we silent glide, 

There is wealth in the glittering brine ! 

A VOICE. 

Hark !— Hark !— Sweet music floats around ! 

Is it Orion on the sea ? 
List ! — List ! the all-entrancing sound, 

Filling the air with melody ! 

A MARINER. 

On yonder towering cliff behold— 

Her blue eyes gazing o'er the sea, 
Robed in her flowing locks of gold ; 

The Syren maid Parthenope ! 
Oh ! brightly through the dashing spray. 

Gleam her fair feet the crag that press; 
White as the waves that round them play, 

Enamoured of their loveliness. 



152 

There just emerged from out the brine, 

As Aphrodite fair she stands ; 
She sings to me in strains divine — 

She waves to me iier beauteous hands. 
Put up the hehn for where yon isle 

Enshrines my radiant deity ; 
For I would live but in her smile. 

Or die beneath its witchery ! 

A VOICE. 

They rise ! — They rise ! the nereid band — 
The beauteous Syren sisters three ! 

And now with twining arms they stand, 
And hark ! they sing — 

{S2/rens.) — Come — come with me ! 

SONG OF THE SYRENS. 

All under the tide where the bright dolphins glide, 
In our pearl-sanded caverns we sea-maidens hide. 
Oh ! gaily we revel — and lightly we sleep, 
And life passes merrily down in the deep ! 



153 



Come fishermen, down where the gay sea- weeds grow — 
Where blooms the red coral no toil do we know ! 
But time floweth on like a long holiday, 
And care throws no shadow to darken our way. 

Come ! — come ! — come ! 

Down many a fathom there lieth a wreck — 
Bright jewels are strewed like the sands o'er her deck. 
And gold there lies scattered in many a heap — 
Come fishermen, down for the wealth of the deep ! 
We've set the rich banquet and pour'd the bright wine, 
And spread your soft couches all under the brine — 
And while to sweet slumber your eyelids ye fold, 
We'll curtain your sleep with our ringlets of gold. 

Come ! — come ! — come ! 

Mariners. — Put up the helm for yonder isle ! — 
Fishermen. — Beware ! beware ! — Their song is guile ! 
Destruction lurks their smile beneath — 
Oh ! tempt not fate! — their clasp is death ! — 



154 



Mariners. — Speed ! speed good bark ! — 
Fisherman. — Put back V — Put back ! — 

Mariner. — See how the foam- wreath marks her track ! 
She cleaves the wave with dauntless prow ! — 
Fisherman. — Great Sea-God ! aid ! oh, aid us now ! — 
Another Fisherm^an. — 

Put back ! put back ! ye trait'rous band ! 
Turn, turn her prow from yonder strand ! — 
Mariner. — Come brothers ! leap the brine within, 
And leave your toil yon prize to win ! 
Another Voice. — 

Away ! — away ! — we'll breast the tide — 
Be hope our strength, and love our guide ! 

They cast themselves inter the sea and swim for the rock where the Syrens are seen. 

Fisherman. — They swim the sea — the waves they rid© — 
With giant strength they breast the tide — 
They gain the shore — Oh ! veil our eyes. 
Ere we may see the sacrifice ! 

Another Voice. — 

Horror ! — Behold ! — The Syren brood 
Their victims tear ! — They drink their blood ! 



155 

CHORUS OF FISHERMEN. 

Put off !— Put off !— We cleave the spray- 
Speed on good bark ! our homeward way ! 
She rides the wave with dauntless prow — 
Great Neptune aids — protects us now ! 

HELMSMAN'S SONG. 

Behold ! far o'er billow, 

Like sea-nymph 'mid the foam ; 
The bright wave for her pillow, 

Lies our fair island home ! 
Home, where fond hopes are swelling 

Within each artless breast ,• 
Where love illumes our dweHing, 

And toil makes sweet our rest. 
Sicily ! Dear Sicily ! 

Where toil makes sweet our rest ! 

We fear no more the dangers 
That in the dark wave sleep ; 

We bring our nets o'erflowing 
With treasure from the deep ; 



156 

And hark ! soft voices greet us, 

Glad voices from the shore ; 
Where dear ones soon will meet us, 

And welcome us once more ! 

Sicily! Fair Sicily ! 

With " welcome home once more ! " 

VOICES FROM THE SHORE. 

Welcome ! — Toil and peril o'er — 
Welcome ! — Welcome home once more ! 

VOICES OF FISHERMEN. 

Hail !— Hail !~Hail !— 
Ere the sinking sun from the western sand, 
Shall kindle at eve the darkening brine ; 
Our. keel shall lie on Sicilia's strand, 
And our nets shall drip from the Sea-God's shrine ! 



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